


Those Who Endure

by TheRealSokka



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, I'm just porting this over from fanfiction.net
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-04-27 00:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14413848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealSokka/pseuds/TheRealSokka
Summary: Small stories from the lives of the people we meet in Lordran, Drangleic and Lothric.To some, the Chosen Undead/Bearer of the Curse/Ashen One is just an episode, for others, it means much more. Be it one or the other, they all have to cope with the world they live in.





	1. Stories of Fire, Stories of Faith

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally just my headcanons for what happens to these characters before or after the player character meets them. I guess it's also a bit of a character study. Let me know what you think.

The blind saint sits in her alcove. Next to the candles, providing light she cannot see. Her hand rests on the tomes next to her. Unread, now, for many days. Her empty gaze glides of over the stones. She sits there in complete silence: Irina can’t even find the will to cry.

She yearns for a voice, for a touch. But nothing disturbs her solitude. Nothing but the little creatures, gnawing away at her. She has long ago stopped fighting them, and now they are her only company. The cold stones at her feet, the darkness all around her. Her cowering in the nothingness, like a scared little child.

She trembles when she imagines what her companion must think of her. _Pathetic_ , he would say. That’s what it is, she knows it. She can’t even ask him for his sword, once it all becomes too much.

For a moment, she had had hope. Just a tiny flicker, but it was there. But he has gone now, too. Left her, like everybody has…

“What is troubling you, child?”

The voice rips her out of her thoughts. Her eyes open in confusion, staring into the void. It was no imagination. She hasn’t heard this voice before, yet she feels no fear, just relief that the silence is gone, even just for a moment. But no one ever visits her here - why should they?

“Who is there?” she calls, suddenly suspicious.

She hears a quiet chuckle. “Just a bored old man. You have nothing to fear from me, my dear.” His voice does sound ancient. It is not the voice of a killer. Is that a good thing?

“What do you want? I’m afraid I am not very good company…”

“I just wanted to talk. May I sit with you?”

She nods, maybe a bit too eagerly. She tries not to show her relief too much.

She can hear him sit down, clearing his throat: “I do believe we have a common acquaintance, you know? My pupil often visits you when he comes back from his journeys.”

A memory surfaces. He has told her of this old man. “You - are you his master? The one that teaches him pyromancies?” she asks, suddenly pensive.

A cough. “Was. I don’t have much left to teach him, I fear. He has learned pyromancies that I have never even heard of; I can hardly call him pupil anymore.” She thinks she can hear sadness in his voice: “So No, I am no master.”

It sounds too familiar. “I have nothing left to teach him either.” she admits hesitantly. A question pushes through, demands attention. Her body straightens. She has to know: “Does he- does he visit you, still?”

There is a slight pause. “Sometimes, yes. To chat a little, mostly. Or to show me something new he has found.” He laughs suddenly: “I suppose, in a way I am his pupil now.”

She nods, her heart numb. Like she expected. She turns her head away to not let him see her tears.

His voice suddenly becomes soft: “He always speaks kindly of you, you should know that. You are a great help to him…”

“Not anymore.” she whispers. “I don’t know any more. I’ve told every tale I knew! He doesn’t come here at all now.” A bitter cry breaks from her lips: “Why should he?! I’m no use without something to tell.”

“Is that how you see yourself? Just a means for someone to gain knowledge?” It sounds almost scolding.

That sparks defiance in her. Irina raises her head: “I help. It gives me a purpose. It’s better than just…just…” Her resolve falters and her shoulders slump. “Than just sitting here alone with my failure” she finishes quietly.

“Your failure?” He sounds honestly curious.

Tears well in her eyes and she lowers her head.

A sigh. “Forgive me; that was not tactful.” She can hear him standing up. “Forget that I asked. I won’t bother you anymore.”

“No!” she cries. The movements stop. She turns her head away: “Just…stay for a moment? Please?”

A moment of silence, then he sits back down in front of her. His old bones creak as he does so. She can feel his attentive gaze on her.

Hesitantly, she begins: “You know, in my home of Carim, I was a nun. The epics the sisters told me were wonderful. And I always loved hearing new tales.” She shakes her head: “But that’s not why I came here. Not for the miracles. I- I wanted to be a Fire Keeper” she confesses.

“That is a noble cause.”

Her voice shakes: “I couldn’t. I am weak. Unfit to tend the flames. They burned me as I tried. They laughed at me…”

There is a long moment of silence. He seems to hesitate. “I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath: “The flames are not evil, you know? They don’t take pleasure in hurting you. I’m sure you could…”

“You are a pyromancer!”, a desperate cry breaks from her lips. “You can control it; you don’t need to fear it! I’m not like you; I’m not…I can’t…I…”

A hand rests on her shoulder. It breaks through the darkness surrounding her; the little creatures hiss and retreat at the heat around his fingers: “Child, everybody fears the fire. Those who claim they don’t are fools. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I tried.” It’s barely a whisper. “I tried so many times. It never lets me get close; it hurts me.” She casts down her sightless eyes: “It hates me.”

She hears the old man sigh: “Fire can have a mind of its own, ‘tis true. I learned that myself.” The grip on her shoulder tightens: “But fire is not only destruction. It is life, light, _warmth_. It can be a friend, if you let it.”

“Not to me.”

The hand leaves her shoulder.

She is surrounded by darkness once again. By silence. She hugs her knees. _Now he has gone, too..._ She can’t reproach him; she wouldn’t want to be in her company either. But now she is alone once again. The little creatures approach again, she can feel them, the tiny fangs tearing into her skin…

A quiet crackling reaches her ears.

She flinches at the sound. Instinctively, she raises her arms in expectation of the pain. But there is something that gives her pause. This is not an angry roar, nor a pained scream. It is quiet, distant. Somehow, it is soothing. So quiet…

She has no explanation why, but then she is on her knees and crawling towards it, as if under a spell. It gets warmer and warmer. Her movements become slower and slower. She stops. It is right in front of her, she can feel it. Suddenly, she is afraid.  “What - what do I do?” she calls into the darkness.

No answer.

Irina makes her decision. She knows it will hurt again, but she has to try, has to know. A tentative hand reaches out. Closer to the quiet crackling. _It feels so warm…_

From her fingertips, something spreads through her body. It is as if her veins catch fire. The flames dance behind her eyelids; blindingly bright. She gasps. The fire is running all over her, setting every inch of her ablaze. It is frightening: she wants to scream, but she can’t. And – there’s also fascination; awe at this completely new feeling. And this fascination is stronger than the fear. She stays there, motionless.

The burning feeling recedes. The warmth runs up and down her arms, her legs, her stomach, before accumulating in her chest. It nestles there, still crackling faintly. She listens to it, spellbound. Like in a trance, she presses a hand to her chest, feeling what she thinks must be a dream:

A second heart is beating in her chest. Waves of fire run through her every time it beats, they wash the little creatures away from her skin. She can still feel them. But they can’t touch her: Something glows within her, keeping them at bay. And with every beat, it spreads warmth throughout her, enwraps her in it, tells her it is there.

She is no longer alone.

Tears well in her eyes and she lets out an unrestrained sob. _How…? The old man, he…_

“Th-thank you!” she calls into the darkness.

She hears him laugh: “I’m the one who should be thanking you, child.” His voice grows more distant: “Come visit me sometime. Tell me a story. From what I hear you are a gifted storyteller.” His footsteps recede, leaving the saint alone in the darkness.

Only she isn’t alone anymore. She leans back against the cold walls and allows the tears to fall, keenly aware of her surroundings. Suddenly she lets out a giddy laugh. She wants to jump up and rejoice.

The sound of metal scraping on metal approaches. Heavy boots click on the stones.

“What did the old soot want?” The rasping voice is full of suspicion. To someone who doesn’t know him, it would sound threatening.

Irina laughs and smiles up at him. “Nothing, Eygon.” An incredulous laugh rips from her chest. “He gave me something. Something wonderful.”

“Are you alright?” He sounds surprised. She must make an odd sight to him.

She leans her head against the wall. The warmth beats in her chest. Her eyes close: “I’m warm.”

* * *

 

The Unkindled returns to the shrine with a heavy heart. His friend had been too lost in thought in the past weeks. She needed something to tell, and he had searched high and low for a tome. Even to the dark Cathedral had he ventured, searched every nook and cranny of it…

He wished it wouldn’t have come to this, but there was no other way.

The familiar sounds of the shrine welcome him. The fire crackles around the coiled sword and Andre’s hammering rings through the halls. With a sigh, he makes his way down the stairs, when he becomes aware of another sound. For a second, he thinks his ears deceive him. Then his steps quicken. At the foot of the stairs, he stops in his tracks.

There she is. She sits on the old carpet, her favourite tome in her hands, and reads aloud. The light voice sounds through the air; it is soothing, as always. He listens, spellbound.

So does the old pyromancer. He sits opposite of the saint, listening intently. Between them, an orb of fire crackles faintly. Irina is absorbed in her reading, but a quiet smile plays on her lips. It resounds in her voice, makes it sound brighter, _hopeful_.

In the Unkindled’s hands, a black and rotted book suddenly catches fire. He tosses it aside without a second look. His feet take him to the pair, and he sits down beside them. At the touch of his hand, Irina turns her head and gives him a smile. Her hand reaches out to him, and he takes it without a word. Then she reads on; a tale of an age long past; a warm voice reverberating through the shrine.

* * *

 

**_‘Warmth’,_ ** **Pyromancy**

**Requirements: 25 Faith**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you give Irina all the 'light' miracle tomes, she ends up in the belltower as a fully fledged Fire kepper, right? Basically, this is my idea of what happened in between; how she got that confidence that she was lacking at the beginning.
> 
> Also, Cornyx the Pyromancer kept stressing how important the master-student bond is to him. So I just wondered what he'd be up to after he effectively doesn't have anything to teach anymore.


	2. Just Keep Smithin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never skip and old blacksmith’s advice; he knows his stuff.

* * *

**_Clang, Clang, Clang._ **

The hammering can be heard all the way up to the Parish. It borders on monotone; it’s a never faltering rhythm. The hollows ignore it: They have long ago learned that it is best not to disturb the old smith. The wayward knight sits in front of the giant gate, waiting, the sound slowly lulling him to sleep once again. A lone Undead enters the tower, halts at the unexpected sound and raises her shield in expectation of a trap. She doesn’t know yet that she has entered a small oasis of respite. Below, the creator of the sound hammers away at his steel, not minding any of them; completely focused on his work. The bonfire above crackles faintly, forming a quiet undertone to the hammer’s rising and falling.

**_Clang, Clang, Clang._ **

The wary newcomer walks down the stairs, shield still at the ready. She scrutinizes the man behind the anvil for a moment.

“You’re not an enemy, are you?”

Andre huffs: “Don’t look like one, do I? Andre of Astora, blacksmith. If you require smithing, then speak to me.”

The Undead hands him a halberd. A quick inspection of the blade. The smith supresses a sigh: Clearly more walls have been hit with this than foes. He’s seen that often enough from those who come from the Parish. Tricky place, that, but that’s no excuse.

“That will need repairing. Handle it with more care, if you would.”

The Undead shrugs: “I’ve used it a lot lately, that’s a normal side-effect I guess. Besides, you can always repair it, right?”

 _No respect_. “I’d appreciate your weapon more if I were you. It’s your companion; and if you don’t take care of it, it won’t take care of you. Might find that out sooner than you’d like.”

She seems to think about that for a while. “You have a point, I guess.” She looks faintly embarrassed now: “I’m still getting used to its weight; maybe I’ve been a bit too enthusiastic with the sweeping attacks. I’ll get the hang of it soon.”

The smith hands her back the good-as-new weapon, not without a meaningful look.

The Undead nods: “I’ll take more care, promise.” When she walks back up the stairs, Andre is pleased to see that she has grasped the shaft with two hands now. Even after she is out of view, there is no sound of metal on stone.

That went surprisingly well. Maybe this one will actually follow his advice; she seemed sincere enough. There might just be hope for her, and her halberd.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**_Clang, clang, clang._ **

A small man with angry slant eyes and headscarf. Katana user; figures. Weapon almost broken, of course. No word of greeting; he just hands him the weapon and peruses the shop. With a shake of the head, the smith gets to work. He’ll never understand why those people bother with blades that so easily betray them. And he’s skipping through the reinforcement stages with nary a word, too. Hasn’t even realized the state of his weapon, it seems. Andre grimaces quietly. This one will be at this church a while. _Would serve him right_.

-Still, as a good smith, he can’t just hand out a weapon in such bad shape: A quick repair later, the Katana is on his way again. Andre doesn’t even bother with advice about durability. This one won’t listen, that much is obvious.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**_Clang, Clang, Clang._ **

A warrior fully clad in steel. Carrying an impressive greatsword. Looks surprisingly intact, too.

“You’re the smith, right?”

 _Stupid question. Another one with all muscle no intelligence._ “Sure am. Andre of Astora, at your service.”

He actually pats his sword: “I want my little friend here to kill everything in one hit. Can you do that?”

“Everything? Now, now, that’s ambitious, my friend. Hope you got a lot of materials.” _This one will need more than basic upgrading_. “Alright: There are two types of weapon forging. There’s reinforcement…”

“Yeah, yeah, I did all that already. Can’t you do more than that? If not, I’ll just stick with my smithbox.”

 _No clue of anything. Doubt he’ll even understand Ascension. Still, could prove worth his metal_. “Could do more I s’pose, but I’d need an ember for that.” That should be simple enough.

Still, it seems to be cause enough for a minute of thinking: “Any idea where I can find such an ember?”

“Hmph, nearest might be that of the fellow up in his tower. You could try borrowing it. Way’s right through there, through the forest.”

A nod, and a confident hulk of a warrior walks out the door.

- ** _Clang, clang, clang._**

_Bzzzzzzz!_

A shocked warrior lands back in front of his anvil. Literally shocked; his limbs twitch with electricity. “Therezzzzz a giant black zzzing out there! Zzzshooting lightning!”

The smith gives a low giggle: “Old boy’s back, ey? Good thing, too, I’m running out of Titanite. Deal with him and get some for me while you’re on the way, will ya?”

He receives a completely aghast look: “How am I supposed to kill that when my weapon barely hurts it?!”

It’s hard to concentrate on the knight’s words when his features constantly twitch with the aftershocks, but the smith maintains a straight face: “And how am I supposed to make your weapon hurt it if you have nothing to steady it with? It’s give and be given, my friend.”

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

 ** _Clang, Clang, Clang_**.

A very young cleric stumbles into his room. Mace and chime. Looking _very_ inexperienced. Keeps looking over his shoulder, as if expecting pursuit.

“Well, you must be a new arrival.” It’s not a question; a blind man could see that.

“Please, I need help!”

“Sure thing, lad. Gimme your steel, it’ll be fixed in no time…”

-“No! Please, it’s just; do you have any directions where I have to go?! I’ve been chased all over the place, and I don’t have a map. Nor have I even been given a goal!”

 _Ah_. “Then you should think somethin’ up, young ‘n! Everyone needs a goal in life, no? Why do you need someone to tell you?”

An embarrassed mutter: “A map…?”

 _Newcomers_. “Do I look like a map-salesman to you, lad? Ask that shady merchant in the Burg if you must, but I think you’re better off without that.”

Relief spreads over his features: “Thanks for the tip! I’ll make it up to you, promise!” And with that he’s already out again, completely unwarranted optimism personified.

Andre laughs in amusement. _Can’t say I haven’t warned him_. Oh well, one double crossing or two might help the newbie settle in. _Better the merchants than that Trusty-backstabber. He really doesn’t like clerics…_

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**_Clang, Clang, Clang._ **

The Katana again. He brushes past the smith without a word, choosing the second path leading into Darkroot. Evidently fed up with the bellkeepers, this one. Andre secretly grins to himself: He can’t deny a certain satisfaction at the Brittle-blade’s annoyance. _Should have bought some quality steel_. _Or listened._ Either would have done.

**_Clang. Clang. Clang._ **

A distinct sound from the bonfire above, and a very bedraggled-looking Undead, full of spikes, comes back down the stairs, muttering something into his scarf. Something about cutting down every last tree he sees. Andre chuckles. They all say that at some point; that forest is still standing. _Control your anger, mate, else it’s gonna be a long journey for you_.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

**_Clang. Clang. Clang._ **

Heavy footsteps down the winding staircase. A little hesitant, maybe. Aha, an older acquaintance. Must have been- what, a couple of weeks since this one first showed up? Stuck with one friend all the time, too; a good old claymore. _Trusty steel, wise choice_. Andre is not surprised he has made it this long. He wears shining new armour and looks a little bigger than last time. His arm no longer strains with the weight of the blade; he must have gained some endurance. The smith greets him with a grin; he has earned that respect.

“Been a long time, pal. Need another upgrade? I’m afraid I’m out of embers at the moment; those newcomers still have no clue where to look. But I do have some Titanite to spare.”

He’s more pensive than the smith remembers: “Thanks, but there’s no need. I think I’m as ready as I’m gonna get.” He pats the blade on his shoulder: “This one has gotten me this far, no need to change anything so close to the end. Look, buddy, I- erm, I’m probably going to burn to death, so I just wanted to say Goodbye. And thanks for all the help, seriously. Wouldn’t have made it this far without me’ trusty blade and your hammer.”

“Sure thing, don’t mention it. ‘Tis my purpose after all. Good luck with your task.”

With a wave, he’s on his way back up the stairs: “Thanks. And happy smithing!” His footsteps recede, after a moment, the smith can hear him sit down at the bonfire.

 _Shame about this one, truly_. He might actually stand a chance to reach the Kiln, and maybe even overcome it. Only to then face those two-faced serpents and their empty promises. He grunts in disgust. _Why do none of them ever see past them?_ He’s had half a mind to tell the warrior. But no; if he doesn’t see for himself, it won’t matter.

Whatever choice he makes, it’s unlikely to make a difference. Like old Goldy said: Like moths, flittering towards a flame. **_Clang. Clang. Clang_**. And there comes the next one. Spear user for a change.

Not that it matters. He will stay here with his anvil and offer whatever help he can, to whomever is willing to accept it. Sometimes, someone actually listens, like the Claymore, and maybe the Halberd. That’s enough. And besides; there’s always demand for smiths.

The hammering never stops for long. It’s been filling the air of this tower for as long as anyone can remember. To Andre, it’s his task, and one that he happily fulfils. For the wanderers, it is one of the few constants in this dreary place. Whether they learn to appreciate it or not.


	3. Relict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ghost's of Anor Londo could wear out even the Dragonslayer.

Sunlight was flooding the ancient hall. Its brilliant rays shone through the tall pillars supporting the domed roof of the Cathedral high above. As they lit up first the massive bronze doors and then the polished marble floor, they fell upon a suit of golden armour.

The old knight stepped out onto the terrace. The gold flashed as he strode across the smooth stone, towards the precipice. The eyes behind the lion-helmet surveyed the magnificent city below, taking in every detail; the rooftops and cathedrals and battlements, all bathing in the sunlight. His weapon was held loosely at his side, in a show of easy confidence.

His once tanned skin had turned pale in the long time it had been hidden behind the gold. As always, he had the impulse to take it off, just for a few moments, to bathe in the brilliant sunlight and feel its might once again. But it remained just that: an impulse. He knew better. His head rose slowly to peer at the shining orb that cast its glow over the entire city. He turned away abruptly. The sun wasn’t warm. It was blinding.

He began his walk around the perimeter. To either side of the giant door he just passed through, the giant sentries stood watch. Stiff, unblinking, unmoving. They were just as lifeless as the sun. The Lion Knight ground his teeth profusely, resisting the urge to lunge out with his spear and turn these apparitions to dust. He despised them. As if there needed be more reminders; reminders of how things had changed.

Long white claws extended towards him behind the side gate, only to be immediately drawn back into the shadows when the bat creature recognized him. He didn’t spare it a look. These pets of his partner’s disgusted him, but so long as they kept him occupied, the knight would not waste his spear on them. Still, it should have been real knights there, standing guard. But of their number so few remained that he could barely protect the palace itself, not to speak of the city. Lord Gwyn’s pride was now being guarded only by magic, monsters and the mirage of power.

And a few remaining relicts of the old times. Like him.

 _Anor Londo deserves better than this. So much better_.

The hammering at least was still the same. The knight relaxed a bit at the familiar sight of the huge shape sitting in front of his tiny anvil. He allowed himself the luxury of joining the smith for a few minutes, leaning against the wall and watching his work. The giant lacked Gough’s wit and sense of humour, but he was an amiable fellow nonetheless, managing to take the Knight’s mind off things for a few moments at least. He mumbled the occasional word now and then, but mostly he was completely absorbed by his work. _Good, simple soul_. The giant didn’t mind the passing of time; as long as he could hammer away, he was happy.

While he carried on, the knight’s fingers ran absentmindedly across the hilt of his cross-spear; one of the first weapons to leave this smithy. The giant knew his trade well: the blade was still as sharp as on day it was forged. Only, in all this time it had taken on a dull shine from lack of use. It was not the only one in that regard, the knight reflected gloomily.

His eyes were drawn towards the outer wall: he almost wished to spy a roar of fire or a flapping of wings over the battlements. He would have relished a fight, a proper fight, as in the days of old.

Suddenly, a movement caught his attention. He squinted: There were _indeed_ wings appearing over the battlements, but they were small and white and pale, by no means worthy of a dragon. It was only the demons. And they were dropping something off on the outer wall. The Lion Knight took a closer look. After observing that something for a few seconds, it began to descend the stairs towards the city.

He had lingered long enough. With a farewell to the smith, he resumed his patrol, not without closing the gates on his way. Whoever, or whatever, had just arrived in the Lord’s city, it would not find easy entrance.

It would take a solid battering ram to force entry at the main gate, and he had made sure to post his best remaining knights at every other possible entrance. The palace was as safe as it could be under the circumstances. Still, an ounce of uncertainty always remained, a fear that he hadn’t done enough. Without allies on the outside, it was simply impossible to say what might be out there, just waiting for a moment’s weakness.

Out of habit, the knight cast his eyes upwards as he passed through the hall. The instinctive motion (it should long have passed) did not last for more than a second before he quickened his pace again, shaking off the thought. There was no small shadow perched high on the pillars, no taunting and teasing remarks reigning down on him. Ciaran had left long ago; she had been spared the fate of seeing Anor Londo fall into ruin.

Even though he was glad for her, Ornstein would have given much to speak with the Lord’s Blade one more time. To hear the clashing of steal, the idle sound of wood being carved or the howls of his friend’s wolf pup. As it was, there was just silence and sunlight.

His patrol through the palace chambers did not take long. His knights were standing guard, a little too silent, but still as alert as ever. The conversations were kept short, never going beyond the giving and receiving of orders. Such efficiency should have pleased him, but it somehow did not seem to mean much anymore. A spark had been extinguished –even before Lord Gwyn had left; that was the grim truth – and now everything looked darker.

When he returned to the throne room, his eyes were immediately drawn by the central statue on the opposite end, as always. The marble retained an eerie lifelikeness, as if a living body had only just become petrified: The cold stone eyes of Lord Gwyn stared down on him, still as vigilant as the God’s himself, though lacking his warmth. _I am still here_ , the knight answered quietly. He couldn’t help his glance from straying to the empty pedestal to Gwyn’s right, and lingering a bit too long; but again the impulse was quickly repressed. Brooding over what might have been would only limit his vigilance in the here and now.

A noise from the corner caught his attention. Had it been anything else, Ornstein would have welcomed the distraction, but in this case it only strengthened his nausea: Sitting beside a pillar was the bulging Executioner, busying himself with what looked like a pile of clothes on the ground. He raised his absurdly small head at the sound of the Dragonslayer’s boots on the marble. With a grunt, he acknowledged his presence, before turning his attention back to the pile. The Knight gave the slightest of nods before making for the elevator. As he strode past, he heard a weak moan issue from the pile. A fat hand reached for it and the sound died abruptly.

Ornstein’s steps quickened once again. The Executioner has been made guardsman of the Princess along with him. That did not mean he had to endure his presence one moment longer than necessary.

Any of his fellow Knights could have stayed behind with him, he thought in a rare moment of bitterness as the platform ascended. Any would have been a better choice than- this. Any one of them.

Out of all the things he’d lost, them he missed the most.

The eyes of the Sun Princess, which used to be so full of life, looked down upon him as he entered her chamber and took his place by the door. In the first years, he had avoided meeting the empty gaze, but now he was staring back, almost in defiance. The real Princess wouldn’t be tarnished by his loathing of this mirage; she was long gone, gone to a brighter place, hopefully. This, this was less than a shadow.

And he, the last Knight, has stayed behind, loyally; as he has to be. Guarding the shadows of Anor Londo.

_I am still here, my Lord Gwyn. I am still here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As should be clear at this point; I'm playing around with scenarios of what happens before and after the Chosen Undead steps into the picture. And - like most people, I'm pretty sure - I've always liked the Dragonslayer.


End file.
